


When your blood's up

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 10:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7841548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celegorm, Curufin, a newly forged knife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When your blood's up

**Author's Note:**

> I had a terrible day the other day and somehow decided that writing murderprinces playing with knives would improve it. Consider this a companion piece to [this 3-sentence fic](http://brazenbells.tumblr.com/post/142030841997/murderprinces-for-june-surely-this-one-is) (more knifeplay + accidental burns mentioned at the link)

"If you intend to use the same blade on me that you carve up beasts with, I can promise you the next blood it tastes will be yours, when I _castrate_ you."

Curufin sounded equal parts aroused and disgusted, and while Celegorm rather enjoyed him that way, he didn't doubt the sincerity of the threat. He smiled, placatingly.

"Did you want your own special knife? Well, you're in luck, this one is fresh. It's known no lover's touch save the whetstone." It was also a dagger, not a skinning knife, but Curufin only cared for such distinctions in the forge.

The reassurance was less soothing than Celegorm might have expected. Curufin half-reared up beneath him, and Celegorm moved the blade aside swiftly to avoid doing him damage that was _not_ intended. "Whose work is it, then? I haven't made you anything recently. Would you use an inferior blade on me?"

"Peace, brother," Celegorm said, intentionally using the lazy drawl that incensed Curufin, pressing him slowly but forcefully back down. "You have been too...occupied lately for my simple commissions. Your son made it, and I think you'll find it quite up to your standards." Curufin bared his teeth, and his muscles were tense beneath Celegorm's hand; but it was an eager, challenging kind of tension. _Do it._ "It's quite sharp. Maybe even sharp enough that you won't feel the cut." He drew the very tip in a shallow curve across Curufin's skin, just below the left nipple, blood beading up in tiny spheres along the line. Curufin clearly wanted to move, and bit down hard on the urge; the end result was a short directionless jerk that reminded Celegorm of a horse twitching off a fly. He was prepared for it, drawing the dagger back just in time to keep from impaling Curufin a second time.

He drew the same concave arc on the other side, pressing harder this time, a real cut instead of a scratch. "Sharp enough that it won't leave a scar. See, I do consider your vanity."

"You care nothing for my vanity," Curufin hissed. He must be very affected indeed, not to argue the point of whether he was vain to begin with. "You only know that I would not allow it. You would flay me alive if you dared, and salt the wounds that I never forgot you'd been inside my skin."

"I might yet." Celegorm shifted off of him, taking his time to draw a long cut from his low belly all the way up to his sternum, as if he were field dressing a deer. Curufin made a harsh noise between his teeth, clenching his jaw. "Ash though, not salt; I told you already. For scarring." Celegorm's grin was slow and wicked. " _Agony_ isn't the sensation I want to be tied to in your memory. But leaving my mark..." He rubbed a thumb hard across the cut where it bisected Curufin's stomach, smearing a bloody stripe over the skin and aggravating the shallow wound. Curufin swore at him, but his body gave him away; he clearly had more than enough blood for other purposes, his cock hard as an iron bar.

The first scratch had already closed over. In two days' time it would never have existed. Something roiled in Celegorm's stomach thinking of it—gentleness would never leave its mark on his brother. Better be sure something stayed, then.

He bent his head and traced the half-circle beneath Curufin's right nipple with the tip of his tongue. " _Bastard_ ," Curufin growled, as he licked the cut clean, then sucked at it again to keep it bleeding. When his tongue wandered up to the nipple itself, Curufin's hand closed like a vice over the back of his neck, holding him demandingly down even as Curufin arched up.

From there it all grew a little messy: the dagger dropped to the rug, painting a fine red line there. Celegorm was less sharp edge and more pressing, smearing skin; Curufin pulled at him, _down_ and _in_ and _deeper_ , until the lines on his own skin were mirrored in blood on Celegorm's, until Celegorm's bloody mouth was staining his own, until Celegorm's cock opened him as surely as his dagger had. Celegorm could never resist that pull, _would_ never resist it.

But if he were to be inside his brother's skin, he _would_ leave his mark, somehow.


End file.
